


a thing well done

by thedevilchicken



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Kneeling, Queen Daenerys, Throne Sex, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Queen Daenerys sits on the Iron Throne. And Jorah is eager to please her.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2019





	a thing well done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingstoken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingstoken/gifts).

Daenerys Stormborn, first of her name, is sitting on the Iron Throne.

It's at the top of the steps, above him in the empty hall where she's awaiting his arrival. She watches him approach, all the way from the hall's huge doors that other members of her Queensguard apparently had orders to close behind him once he'd entered, between the pillars and the burning braziers and tall wrought iron stands of lighted candles. He can almost feel her gaze on him across the room. He wonders if she can feel his.

He comes to a stop at the foot of the steps and bows to her briefly. She's always looked royal ever since they first met but now, in this moment, with all her beautiful hair braided around her crown as if the metal's just another part of her, with her back straight and her hands resting on the throne's cold arms, she looks like a queen. Queen of the Andals and the First Men. _His_ queen. 

"You sent for me, Khaleesi," he says. It's a slip of the tongue that he doesn't correct; in this place, that title sounds almost like an endearment, but she doesn't correct him, either.

She inclines her head. "I did," she replies.

"How can I serve you?"

"You can kneel." 

He shifts his sword back out of the way, throws his long white cloak over one shoulder and starts to go down onto one knee on the throne room's polished stone floor, but she holds up a hand. He pauses. He straightens up again. He frowns.

"Khaleesi?"

"Not there," she says. She gestures at the stone dais in front of her, at the top of the steps where the throne sits. "_Here_."

Jorah hasn't always done as he's told, but he does now. He takes the steps up to the throne and he kneels in front of her on the top step, as she told him to. There's not much room there; he's closer than he usually kneels, not that he minds. Propriety has only mattered to him now and then, for her sake rather than his, and now there's no one else to see.

Her hands shift to her thighs, just resting against the fabric of her dress that's made of much heavier stuff now they're in King's Landing in winter and not across the Narrow Sea with the sun beating down. Her fingers close on two handfuls of deep blue velvet and she hitches it up slowly, deliberately, to her knees. 

She's wearing a pair of tall boots underneath that cover both her calves and reach her knees, supple black leather tooled in swirling nonsense patterns that draw his eye like the flight of dragons. He'd shine them for her if she asked, he thinks, though he doubts her leather sees the same cheap polish his own boots do, and for a moment he almost thinks she's actually going to ask. But then she eases her skirt higher, and higher, past the tops of her boots, over the fine wool stockings she wears underneath them to try to keep warm, and over her bare thighs.

His brows rise as she pulls the skirt _higher_; she's bare underneath, no smallclothes to speak of. And she tucks the velvet back, and she shifts forward on the Iron Throne's uncomfortable seat, and slowly, she spreads her thighs out wide in front of him. Her cunt is shaved bare, and for a moment all he can think about is if she does that for herself or if one of her women does it for her, or maybe one of her men, one of her Queensguard, and while his cheeks flush jealously, he wonders if maybe she'd let him. But then she spreads her legs a little wider still and he sees her lips part just a fraction. She's wet; he can see that in the firelight that dances there between her thighs. 

"Come closer," she says, so he comes closer. Her thighs are wide apart so he kneels between them, so close that he can feel the warmth of her bare skin. 

"Put your mouth on me," she says, and he only hesitates for a moment. Then he leans in, and the very first contact is the tip of his tongue; he licks the long line where her lips are slightly parted, and she shivers from it. He's been inside her countless times now, but he's never done this. She doesn't let him touch her. 

Her rooms are at the top of the tower, and from time to time she invites him in. He stands stiffly at the door as he watches her; sometimes she leaves him there while she eats and drinks; sometimes she has him join her and she shares a cup of wine with him. Other times, like last time, she tells him to undress. She watches as he does it, regal and impassive, as he takes off his cloak, his sword, his armour, boots and gloves and everything else that might obstruct her view. He doesn't mind that she sees his scars, because he knows she doesn't mind them. He doesn't mind her seeing him; honestly, just her looking at him gets him hard.

Last time, like so many times, she had him lie down on her bed. She always tells him, _Don't touch_, and so he doesn't - he keeps his hands above his head, closed on lats in the headboard so temptation doesn't seize him, and he did that then. She trailed one fingertip up over the length of his cock, pressed it to the moisture at the head then licked her finger clean again and Jorah couldn't help but groan as he felt his cock fill harder. Then she straddled him, still fully clothed, the way she always does. She took him in her hand and pushed him up inside her. She's so beautiful he couldn't look away, till he'd finished, till she told him to, and he dressed again and left her there. He doesn't expect he'll ever stay the night.

"Use your hands," she says now, and his hesitation is because she's always told him not to touch. But then he parts her lips with his thumbs. He rubs the inside of one thigh with his prickly beard, then he teases her clit with his tongue. She gasps. Then he slips one finger into her and she gasps again, out loud. She moans. He's not sure he's ever been so hard.

Her dress, as it turns out, is different from most of her others. He pushes his finger in, knuckle-deep, and he watches when her movement catches his eye; she unclasps a set of hidden sliver catches, she shifts against his hand, and then the dress pulls open. He clenches his jaw as he looks at her, as she shrugs the dress from her shoulders and leaves it there against the throne like a blue velvet blanket. She's naked underneath, all pale skin and rosy nipples at her bare breasts, and her fingers clench at the Iron Throne's arms. He slips a second finger into her. She's so beautiful as she pushes down to take them deeper that he could almost come just from looking.

Then she stands. She eases back his hand and she stands in front of him and she ushers him to stand up, too, but not for long. She unlaces his trousers with surprisingly deft hands and reaches in to draw him out; he hisses in a breath as her cool fingers find his cock. She turns him, pushes him down, and he finds himself sitting on the fucking Iron Throne, this thing they've travelled half a world to get her, and his brows rise and she straddles him. She's naked except for her crown and her knee-high boots when she rolls her hips and pushes him inside her. And he can see it when he looks down, the place where his cock pushes past her lips and into her. He rubs there with one thumb, now he's allowed to, rubs her cunt where it's stretched around him tight and pink and wet. He licks his fingertips. She groans.

When she comes, she pulls tight around his cock. She has her fingers in his hair, and he's so hard in her that he feels he might do himself an injury. He's thought of how much he'd like to free his cock there before the throne and stroke himself so she can watch. He's thought of how much he'd like to come on the floor in front of her, or on her leather boots, or the stone of the steps. When he comes, though, he comes pushed up to the hilt inside her, hips jerking so hard it almost hurts.

She pats his cheek. She stands; he stands; he tucks himself in; she pulls her dress back into place. Underneath, he knows his come is in her, on her thighs, on her pretty bare cunt, thick and slick. He'd like to lick her clean and make her come again, but he understands the moment's passed.

"Is that everything, Khaleesi?" he asks, still almost breathless.

When she nods, there's not even one hair on her head out of place. He bows. He turns to leave.

He knows she did this for him, just this once, and maybe never again. And he'll do anything she wants because of it.


End file.
